Gmail locked me out, so I'm posting this under yesterday's date.
The delicate branches of
painted trees reach out below a
turquoise sky. From behind the
windows she can see every drop of rain
and can count them,
two hundred forty seven spots of
reflecting water, handing her small mirror images like two hundred forty seven
shards of glass would.
The hem of her skirt brushes the stone,
her feet moving down the endless rows
of gray-and-black steps. At the bottom,
the motorcycle waits while the rain pours
and the narrow, bare trees hang over the seat, the wheels, the whole.